


Alice

by MockingJayFlyingFree



Category: A Town Like Alice - Nevil Shute, Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: A Town Like Alice, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Asia, Australia, F/M, London, Malaya - Freeform, Malaysia, Nevil Shute, Oceania, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Smut, Torture, WWII, World War II, because of course it gets smutty, book crossover - Freeform, everlark, it's everlark after all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-05 07:45:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5367020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MockingJayFlyingFree/pseuds/MockingJayFlyingFree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s 1942, and the world is at war. English typist Katniss Everdeen meets Australian Peeta Mellark under the most unusual of circumstances – on a dirt road in Malaya, where they are both prisoners of war. When Peeta steals bread from Japanese Captain Snow to help her, he has to pay for his crime with his life. </p><p>Or so Katniss thinks. </p><p>Based on 'A Town Like Alice' by Nevil Shute</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

>  
> 
>   
> 
> 
>  
> 
> I know, I know… When I finished The miner’s wife, I said that I wouldn’t write any more multi-chapter fanfics, but, you know… This fic just happened.
> 
> I first read Nevil Shute’s classic 1950 book 'A Town Like Alice' when I was in my early teens. When I went to Australia, many years later, I reread it (because how can you not read 'A Town Like Alice' when you go to Australia, right?), and I couldn’t help but think that it would make the perfect Everlark fic! 
> 
> When reading 'A Town Like Alice' as an adult, I noticed new aspects of the book. First of all, I appreciated Jean’s extraordinary courage much more than I did when I was 13 or 14. It was also very obvious to me that the book was written by a man nearly 70 years ago. As a woman in 2015, I felt it was necessary to make quite a few changes when adapting the story into an Everlark fanfic. Although I’ve done my best to modify certain aspects of the story, especially when dealing with race/ethnicity and gender roles/sexuality, the extent to which I can do that is somewhat limited by the time period and the places the story is set in. If some passages in this story come across as offensive, I apologize in advance.
> 
> This story was written on three different continents, and was alpha’d on a fourth continent. Which I think is kind of cool! In a way, aside from that fourth continent, it resembles the book, which takes the reader from England, via Malaya, to the Australian outback. When I wrote this story, I traveled in the opposite direction. I started in Australia, then I went to Asia, and finally I returned home to Europe. I was even able to go to Green Island (those of you who have read the 'A Town Like Alice' know what happened there!) and call it “research”. Fanfiction for the win!
> 
> Thank you to Lbug84 for alphaing – because I recently learned that we’re not each other’s betas, we work far too closely together for that - and generally for being one of my best friends, even though you're half the world away. You say that I’m always in your pocket – well, you’re always in mine, too. And a big thank you to otrascosasseries for making the beautiful banner!
> 
> I don't own anything - neither the Hunger Games trilogy nor 'A Town Like Alice'. I'm just borrowing the characters and stories for a while, because I love and admire them. <3

**London, 1948**

I feel small sitting in Mr. Flickerman’s office. Maybe it’s because of the massive mahogany desk that separates us. Did he choose such an intimidating piece of furniture on purpose? I wonder. Maybe to show his clients that he, through his profession, has power that they don’t?

I look around the room. It’s not just the mahogany desk; everything about this space is intimidating and over the top. The windows are framed by heavy curtains in bright red velvet. Marble statuettes line the fireplace mantel. There are paintings on the walls. I can’t tell what they are of, they are neither of humans, landscapes nor anything else I can recognize. They are just _shapes_ in vivid colors: gold, black, purple, all almost too bright.

I suppose the office matches its owner.

After I received the letter, I discreetly asked a few people at work if they knew anything about a man named Mr. Caesar Flickerman. Surprisingly, everyone I spoke with immediately knew who he was. Their descriptions were all variations of the same eccentric theme, but the consensus was clear; Mr. Flickerman is one of the best lawyers in London. No one said anything specific about what made Mr. Flickerman eccentric, though, and I didn’t really worry about it. I mostly just focused on the “good lawyer” part.

I understand the chatter now, though. Mr. Flickerman is even more extraordinary than his office.  Everything about him makes him stand out. He smiles too much, showing teeth which look so white and perfect that I can’t help but wonder whether they are real. He moves almost as if he were an actor on a stage, his every move choreographed. His suit looks expensive, definitely tailored. The color is midnight blue with tiny white dots that appear to sparkle when he moves, an odd choice for a lawyer. His hair even has a bluish hue to it, matching his suit.

I don’t know what to expect from this meeting. The letter Mr. Flickerman sent me was short. My granduncle Woodrow Everdeen passed away six months ago and, apparently, he has left me an inheritance. I didn’t know my granduncle. In fact, I didn’t even know that he had passed away until I received Mr. Flickerman’s letter. I only have a vague memory of my family visiting him once when I was a child. My younger sister, Primrose, couldn’t pronounce his name, so she called him “Woof." He found it hilarious and, just that easily, she wrapped him around her little finger. In the letter, Mr. Flickerman wrote that were several other beneficiaries in the will, including Prim. Sadly, I am the only one who is still alive.

Now, Mr. Flickerman is explaining the details of the situation to me. He’s friendly. It’s clear he's trying to make me feel at ease, but his explanation is still a bit hard to follow. It could be because I’m not familiar with legal jargon. He's kept it to a minimum, though, to make his words understandable. Maybe I’m just too tired. I didn’t get much sleep last night. The nightmares kept me up.

I stifle a yawn and force myself to focus on Mr. Flickerman. “There are, however, certain terms in the will,” he stipulates. Thankfully, it doesn’t look like he noticed my almost yawning. Or maybe his brilliantly white smile is a sign that he did, but he’s simply too professional to let me know that he thinks I’m rude. “Your granduncle was… well, he was a bit of an eccentric in some ways. I’m afraid he did not quite trust the judgment of young women, especially when it came to managing money.” I furrow my brow. Mr. Flickerman chuckles and rolls his eyes dramatically. “I know, I know. The judgment of young men is just as questionable as that of young women, possibly even more so. That said, what you or I think about the matter is irrelevant, I’m afraid. The terms of Mr. Everdeen’s will clearly state that the residue of the estate will remain in a trust until you are 35 years old. The will also names my partner Mr. Claudius Templesmith and myself as the trustees.”

“What does that mean, exactly?” I feel like an idiot.

“It means that until you turn 35, you will receive a monthly payment, consisting of the interest of the trust fund. If I remember correctly, you are 27 years old now, yes?” I nod. “The trust fund will be managed by Mr. Templesmith and myself for the next eight years, until your 35th birthday. After that, you are free to do with your inheritance as you wish.” I’m still not quite sure if I understand what he’s talking about. Mr. Flickerman must see my confusion. “Do you have any questions, Miss Everdeen?” he asks.

I clear my throat. “If I may ask, exactly how much money did my granduncle leave me?”

Mr. Flickerman leans back in his black leather chair. He doesn’t answer right away, and something in his eyes makes me think that he’s pausing for dramatic effect.

“Fifthy-three thousand pounds.”

My mouth opens in shock, but I can’t get a sound out. My mother never talked much about my granduncle, but what little she did say never gave me any reason to believe that Uncle Woof was _rich_.

“It _is_ a sizable sum,” Mr. Flickerman says. I immediately close my mouth, feeling ashamed I’m unable to hide my emotions. “The interest, provided the stock market stays relatively stable, will be around 900 pounds a year, after income taxes. If you budget well, the interest alone could be enough for you to live in comfort. No diamonds or fur coats though,” Mr. Flickerman chuckles.

As if I would ever buy luxury items like that. Is he making fun of me? He probably sized me up the minute I walked into the room. My cheap shoes. My plain, gray dress. He already knows my address, a neighborhood in the East End known as the Seam, which is telling in itself. I find it provoking that Mr. Flickerman clearly thinks that any young, poor woman who suddenly comes into money will immediately go on a wild shopping spree simply because she can. 

Mr. Flickerman must realize that he’s made me uncomfortable, because he clears his throat and quickly continues. “The overall goal of the trust is that your inheritance will be handed over to you at the age of 35, as intact as possible. However, there is a clause which gives the trustees – Mr. Templesmith and myself – certain powers to realize capital for the benefit of the legatee – you – if we are satisfied it is truly to your advantage.”

“I understand,” I say. I’m not quite sure I do, though. The sum of money he’s talking about… It’s too large for me to fully grasp. And what does he mean by something being ‘truly to my advantage’?

“I understand this is a lot to take in, Miss Everdeen,” Mr. Flickerman says. “It’s going to be quite a change for you.”

“Yes. Yes, it will be,” I answer. That’s the only thing I’m certain of right now.

“Why don’t you look over these documents, and we can schedule another meeting in, say, a week?” He pushes a thick stack of documents across the desk to me. “It will give you a chance to read the will and the clauses. I’ll answer any questions you might have.”

On the way home, with the documents wrapped in thick, brown paper to protect them from the rain, I try to understand what this all means.

Nine hundred pounds a year.

Growing up, my family was never poor, but we were certainly not wealthy. When my family lived in Malaya before the war, we would have been considered rich compared to the majority of the population. That was mainly because they were so desperately poor, and we, as expats, were privileged.

After the war, finding myself all alone in the world and without any financial security to fall back on, I’ve made a living working as a secretary at the Ministry of Forestry and Agriculture. I barely make enough money to scrape by. I reside in a tiny one-room flat in the Seam.

I won’t have to work at the Ministry anymore, though. What would it be like to wake up in the morning, and not _have_ to go anywhere? Would I even get out of my flat at all?

If I don’t get out of my flat, if I just disappear, no one would notice.

I pull my thin coat tighter around my body to protect myself from the weather.

 

* * *

 

I drag myself out of a nightmare, gasping for breath.

It takes me a few seconds to realize where I am, thankfully safe in my own narrow bed. I switch on the light and blink my eyes quickly to focus. My heart is still racing. I'm sweaty and my nightgown is sticking to my skin.

I get out of bed and move over to the kitchen, which is technically just a sink and a small oven in a corner by the window. I force myself to breathe slowly while I pour myself a glass of water. The floor is cold against my bare feet and a breeze slips in from under the front door, causing me to shiver. I close my eyes while I gulp down a few mouthfuls of water.

His screams are still ringing in my ears.

He tried to stay silent at first, I suppose he didn't want to give Captain Snow the satisfaction. But when his back had been turned into an almost unrecognizable mass of bare, torn flesh, long after his blood had pooled on the dirt by the whipping post, he couldn’t keep quiet anymore.

It’s been six years, but I still hear Peeta’s screams every night.

My nightmares are a confusing jumble of real and not real. His screams mingle with images of emaciated, dying children, and the pain of Sergeant Cato’s heavy boots hitting my shin. All of those things are real. While disturbing, I can at least make sense of them. My being chased by horrific animals through a forest, though, is more difficult to understand. The animals look like overgrown wolves, but somehow, in my dream, I know these monsters are not of this world. Strangely, the worst thing about the monsters, is the one thing about them that _is_ real - their eyes. They have human eyes – I recognize them as the eyes of people I have lost. Prim. My parents. Madge. Rory and Vick.

Strangely, Peeta is not one of them. 

But tonight, there was something else in my nightmare. Something that is worse than the screams, or the mutts, or Posy’s terrified sobbing as she hid her face against my neck. I heard the hammer, hitting the heads of thick, coarse nails. One through each palm, nailing Peeta to the tree.

I steady myself by gripping the kitchen counter firmly. My brain is so successful at shutting that particular memory away in a dark, hidden corner of my mind that I hardly ever even think about it. When the memory does resurface, always in the form of a nightmare, it is usually triggered by something stressful or upsetting. 

There is little relief in waking, because it was real, and it was my fault.

I open my eyes. The moon outside of my window is almost full. A quick glance at the clock on the wall tells me it’s 4 a.m. Finishing my glass of water, I curl up under a blanket on the sofa and wait for sunrise.

 

* * *

 

A week after our first meeting, I find myself back in Mr. Flickerman’s office. I’ve read all of the documents. There are a lot of legalities in them, and I still don’t fully grasp the situation, but I _think_ that I have a better understanding of what this all means than I did last week.

“Miss Everdeen,” Mr. Flickerman greets me with a smile that makes him resemble a Hollywood star. “How are you doing?” He’s not wearing the same midnight blue, sparkly suit today. This one is dark brown and it has an unusual purple shimmer to it when he moves. His hair is pulled back in a pony tail.

“I’m well,” I tell him. “No diamond or fur coat shopping as of yet.”

Mr. Flickerman tilts his head back and laughs. “I didn’t expect you to,” he confesses with a wink. “You don’t quite seem the type.”

I wonder what kind of type he thinks that I am, but I’m not quite sure I want to hear what that may be, so I choose not to ask.

“I don’t think I am, Mr. Flickerman,” I say quietly.

He folds his hand on the mahogany desk and leans forward. “Our meeting last week must have been overwhelming for you.” His voice has an almost comforting tone.

“It was,” I acknowledge. “I have spent the last week wondering what to do with my life now that money is apparently no longer a concern.”

“And what did you decide?”

I’ve thought about this a lot. How to tell him, how to make him understand. Our cultural references are different. Mr. Flickerman is a lawyer. Everything in this room oozes money, he is most likely from a very wealthy family. I’m quite certain he does not know how it feels when an unexpectedly high electricity bill means you won’t have supper for a week. I’m absolutely convinced he does not know what it’s like to grow rice, or to carry water every day.

 “I have decided to quit my job,” I begin. It’s not quite what I had planned to open with, but it’s too late now. Mr. Flickerman furrows his brow and opens his mouth. I can tell he doesn’t approve, but I continue before he has the chance to object. “I am planning to go on a journey which I expect will take at least three or four months, and I doubt my boss would give me that much time off.”

“Are you planning to go on a long holiday?” Mr. Flickerman asks. He taps his pen on the sheet of paper lying in front of him on his desk, as if he’s impatient, but his smile is wide as ever. I’m sure this is exactly what he was expecting from a poor young woman who suddenly inherited a small fortune. Granted, I claim that I’m not going to buy fur and diamonds, but instead, he thinks I want to spend my newfound wealth on a holiday.

“Not exactly, I answer. “I want to travel to Malaya.”

“I know from your papers that you and your family used to live there. Are you planning to visit friends there, perhaps?”

“Well, that too. Sort of. I want to go to Lagu Burung.” Flickerman's eyes narrow. "It's a small village in Malaya."

I have Flickerman's full attention now. "There was nothing in your papers about Lagu… What was the name of the place again?"

“Burung. Lagu Burung. I’m not surprised it’s not in my papers, because officially, I was never there. There are no records of my whereabouts between 1942 and 1945 at all, are there?”

“No, there aren’t,” Mr. Flickerman admits. “I thought the records had been lost because of the war.”

I shake my head. “No. You can’t find any records because they were never made. But to answer your question about visiting friends: I do have dear friends in Lagu Burung, one in particular, but this is not a social visit. I’m going there because I'd like to dig a well for the community.”

“A well? In _Malaya_?” Mr. Flickerman is clearly unable to hide his shock at my words, and for the first time, it looks as if he slips out of his part. My digging a well in a Malay village he can’t even pronounce the name of was not in his script. He stares at me, wordlessly. Something passes over his face, and for a split second, I think that he’s going to laugh at the absurdity of my request. But then his professional mask comes back on. “That’s certainly unexpected news,” he finally says, his voice neutral.

“I’m afraid I would need some extra money from my inheritance to finance my travels, I don’t think the yearly interest would be sufficient. I wouldn’t need a lot extra,” I say quickly, when Mr. Flickerman impatiently starts to tap his pen again. “I think 50 pounds should be more than enough to dig a well. I do of course realize that traveling to Malaya will cost far more than 50 pounds, but if I travel by boat, the price that is far more reasonable than flying.” I’m rambling, but I can't stop. “If I run out of money while I’m there, I can take a job as a typist in Kuala Lumpur or Singapore for a few months. I have excellent references. I’m quite certain finding a job would be feasible.”

“ _Why_ would you want to dig a well in Malaya?” Mr. Flickerman asks.

I look down. I was hoping that talking about the trust, tickets, money and other practicalities would distract him from asking that question, but it’s as if Mr. Flickerman sees right through me.

I didn’t stay in touch with any of the other survivors after the war. At first, handling the situation with Posy and Gale, while trying to find Prim, took all the energy I had. Later, when I was on my own, I realized that meeting any of the other survivors - or even just sending them a letter now and then - would be a reminder of so many things I just wanted to forget. Instead, I chose to live my life as if those three years never happened. I never talk about my time in Malaya, to anyone. My colleagues at the Ministry of Forestry and Agriculture don’t even know that I’ve ever lived outside London.

But if I am to convince Mr. Flickerman to give me the money I need to dig that well, for Rue and for all the other women in the village, I need to tell him the whole story. If I don’t, he’ll almost certainly say no to my request. He needs to understand why this is not insane, but absolutely necessary.

“During the war, I stayed in Lagu Burung for three years,” I start, somewhat hesitantly. “I’m not surprised you’ve never heard of it, even most Malays in Kuala Lumpur don’t know where it is. It’s just a tiny village by the sea, where the villagers survive by fishing, planting rice and foraging in the woods. It’s an idyllic place, even though I was a prisoner of war of sorts.”

“You were a prisoner of war in a Malay _village_?” Mr. Flickerman has stopped tapping his pen now. He’s studying my face closely. His bright smile from before is gone, but his eyebrows are still unnaturally high.

His surprise is understandable. As far as I know, we were the only westerners in Malaya who survived the war by living and working alongside the local villagers in a small, rural community. Of course Mr. Flickerman, living in England, would never have heard of our ordeal. He’s probably heard very little of the war in Malaya, period. “Our official status wasn’t clear,” I admit. “After the Japanese invaded Malaya, obviously the English expats living there were considered possible dangers by the Japanese. The men were all sent to prisoner of war camps, but the Japanese didn’t really know what to do with the women and children. We were essentially a nuisance to the Japanese. But the people of Lagu Burung took us in, even though they didn’t have to, and they were so very kind to us.”

“Us?” Mr. Flickerman asks.

“Yes, us. 17 women and children. We were 34 when we first started out, but in the end…” I clear my throat before I continue. “It took more than six months for us to reach Lagu Burung. By then there were only 17 of us left.” Mr. Flickerman has leaned forward in his chair now, his eyes wide and attentive. “The villagers saved our lives. They didn’t have much, but what little they did have, they shared with us. They taught us to plant rice too, enabling us to feed ourselves. We never went hungry again.”

“I’m not sure I’m following you. Are you telling me that you planted rice? That you fed yourselves for three years?”

“We did. In fact, we even came to enjoy the work.” I smile, but it quickly fades. “We were safe and had full stomachs every night, but life in the village was difficult, particularly for the women. We had to carry water from a spring that was almost a mile away for drinking and cooking. There was a river nearby, but the water was brackish, so it could only be used for cleaning. Every day, two times a day, we would walk nearly four miles in total. Carrying water is a fearful job, and traditionally, it’s women’s work.”

“I imagine that must be very hard,” Mr. Flickerman says, but I know that he can’t. Not really. Everything in this room, everything about him, convinces me of that.

I take a deep breath. “I have unpaid debts.” For the first time, I hold his gaze.  “I always pay my debts, Mr. Flickerman, and this is one way that I can repay at least a little part of it. I have so much money now, more than I will ever need, and they have so very little. A well would make their lives easier. The lives of the women, I mean. And I…” I realize that there is no way Mr. Flickerman can follow my story. I blink quickly, trying to bring the room back into focus. My eyes must have filled with tears without me realizing it.

“Miss Everdeen,” Mr. Flickerman says, surprisingly softly. “Are you alright?”

“Yes.” My lips are dry. My nails are digging into my palms.

“I can tell that this is difficult for you, but,” Mr. Flickerman says softly. “If you would kindly regale me with the story in its entirety, it would be easier for me to determine whether your request is within the realms of the will.”

I nod my head in agreement and force myself to unclench my fisted hands. There are red, angry marks inside my palms where my nails have dug into my skin. “It’s a long story. In fact, I don’t quite know where to start.”

“The beginning is usually a good place,” Mr. Flickerman says cautiously. There is a long silence. “Would you like a cup of tea?” he asks. He interprets my sad smile as acceptance of his offer and calls for his secretary, Atala. I gather my thoughts silently while we wait for her; she brings us tea and biscuits just a few short minutes later. I’m grateful for some extra time to contemplate how to best explain all the things that must be so difficult to understand for an Englishman who has probably never been to Asia, never been a prisoner of war. Perhaps he went to bed hungry at times during the war, but I'd bet my entire newfound fortune that he has never been on a death march.

He's an Englishman who has led a privileged life. A man who has never caused death. Certainly not the death of a man as kind, brave and honorable as Peeta Mellark.

I too quickly take a sip of the tea, and it burns the tip of my tongue. “What I just told you, about how we stayed in Lagu Burung, it wasn’t the beginning of the story,” I finally admit. “Actually, it was the end.”

“I figured as much,” Mr. Flickerman says. “The real question is _how_ a young English woman ends up in a Malay village during the war, isn’t it? Not what she does while she is there.”

“You are correct,” I say. There is a long silence. I take a deep breath and then I collect my thoughts. Outside the window, I hear engines roar as automobiles weave through the roads, horseshoes clip and clip as horses tug carriages along cobblestoned streets, and paperboys shout the latest news at the top of their lungs. London is never quiet. Day or night, there is always sound. It took some getting used to, when I returned home after so many years.

Mr. Flickerman is patient. He simply waits until I am ready to speak.

“I had already lived in Malaya for eight years when the war began,” I begin. “My father worked in a mining corporation. When I was 11, he was relocated to Kuala Lumpur, and my family moved there from London.”

“How did he get into the mining business?” Mr. Flickerman asks.

“He was born into a coal miner family in Northumberland,” I explain. Mr. Flickerman’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Apparently that’s not something he found out when he did research on my family, but I am in no way ashamed of our father’s humble origins. “My grandfather vowed that his only son would never go into the mines, and he earned the funds to send my father to university.”

“Your grandfather must have been so proud of him.”

“My grandfather died in a mining accident one month before my father's graduation,” I answer.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He bows his head in respect, his voice is perfectly sympathetic. Again, he makes me wonder whether what he says is real, or whether it’s just an act.

 “After burying my grandfather, my father married my mother – a girl from a very wealthy family who he had met at university. Her family promptly disowned her for marrying a coal miner’s son. My father got a job in a mining company. He felt that the best way to honor his father, was to improve the working conditions for the miners from within. My father was a hard worker and a very intelligent man, and worked his way up. When he was offered the job in Kuala Lumpur, my father said yes because he knew the tin mines in Malaysia were very dangerous, and he was determined to make them safer.”

“He sounds like a remarkable man.”

“He was.” I have to swallow hard a couple of times before I continue. “Moving to another continent was a shock at first. Kuala Lumpur was so different from London. But it helped tremendously that I had my sister Primrose there to share every experience. We started at the English school. Primrose was only one year younger than me. I’ve always been reserved by nature, and I dreaded going to a new school, but my sister got along with everyone, and thanks to her, I made new friends. It didn’t take long for us to feel at home.” I pause. “Have you been to any of the colonies in Asia, Mr. Flickerman?”

“Unfortunately not,” he admits. I’m not surprised. That means I’ll have to paint a more vivid picture to him, so he can understand.

I think back to those carefree, sunshine-filled days, before everything changed. “Expat life in the tropics was good,” I say with a small smile. “My father’s salary, which would have been considered modest in England, stretched much further, allowing us to live comfortably in Malaya. We had a maid, a cook, and a gardener; we enjoyed luxuries which would be unthinkable for us in England.”

In London, we always had food on the table, but we lived in a one-bedroom flat. My parents slept on the fold-out sofa in the living room at night while Prim and I shared the bedroom. Our house in Malaya was a mansion in comparison. Mr. Flickerman has probably had maids, cooks, and gardeners all his life. Perhaps he's even had butlers. If so, I'm sure he takes their services for granted. I take a sip of tea to buy some time. 

“Life was hard in Kuala Lumpur, especially in the slums, but as expats, we were sheltered. Many of our English friends lived their lives separated from the Malay community, aside from their servants of course. But my family made it a point to have contact with the locals. My mother and sister volunteered at the local hospital, but it… Well, it wasn’t really for me.” I swallow. Caring for sick people came naturally to Prim and Mother, but blood, disease and injury have always only made me feel nauseous. “Instead, I volunteered at the orphanage every Tuesday and Saturday after school, playing with the children. Within a few years, Mother, Primrose and I were all fluent in Malay, unlike our friends and, later, our coworkers.”

Speaking about my pre-war life in Malaya isn’t hard. We were happy there. Until...

“Then the war broke out in Europe. We read about the Blitz, and constant food shortages and rationing. We felt so helpless, living so far away. England was our real home after all, but my mother said that she was happy we were all safe, half a world away from the war.”

“Your mother was right,” Mr. Flickerman agrees. “It was awful to be in England at the time. In London in particular, of course, with the bombing.” His eyes darken, and there is a glimpse of something in his eyes. Pain? When I asked around for information about him, no one said anything about his personal life. Whether or not he has a family. There are no indications of him having a family in his office. No photos of a wife or children, no drawings saying ‘To Father’ or ‘To Grandfather’ in a child’s unsteady handwriting. Only dizzying and somewhat disturbing oil paintings.

“Well, then I suppose you can imagine my mother’s horror when, shortly after, my father was ordered back to England.” Mr. Flickerman nods, but doesn’t say anything. “I was 21 at the time, and Primrose was 20. I had graduated from school and worked as a typist at my father’s mining corporation. Primrose worked as an assistant at the children’s hospital. My parents urged me and my sister to stay behind. They felt we’d be safer in Kuala Lumpur than in London.”

Given how events would come to pass, I know now that none of us were safe. Very soon, all of our lives would be in danger. I would be the only one to survive the war.

 “Although I do understand your parents’ reasoning at the time,” Mr. Flickerman says, “As a father, I don’t think I’d approve of my daughters, both barely adults, living on their own in Asia.” So, he does have a family.

“The expat community was closely knit,” I explain, “and we had a wide circle of friends. My parents were relieved when my boss, Gale Hawthorne, suggested that Primrose and I share a small flat in his mansion.” My mouth suddenly feels dry, and I have to swallow a few times before I can continue. “My father was the cousin of Mr. Hawthorne’s father, and they’d known each other all their lives. Mr. Hawthorne’s father came from a humble background too, but his career in the mining company was stellar, and so was his son’s. Mr. Hawthorne was quite a few years older than me, but we had been acquainted all my life and my family got along very well with him and his wife, Madge. They had three adorable young children – Rory, Vick, and Posy. My parents felt it would be quite safe to leave us in Malaya. After all, the Hawthornes were family.”

Mr. Flickerman nods. “I understand. I have to say that does seem reassuring.”

I sigh. “I should’ve known it wouldn’t work, though. Not with Primrose. She quickly became restless and her frustration grew. She would spend hours every night, combing through newspapers, listening to the news on the radio. The more she heard, the more convinced she became that she had to go home. She had always dreamt of becoming a nurse, and now her dream made perfect sense. ‘My place is in England now,’ she said. ‘I want to get a job at a hospital to help the wounded.’”

“That’s very admirable.”

“Yes.” I have to quickly blink my tears away. “That’s typical of Primrose, though. She always thought of everyone else first, what she could do to help them, she never thought of herself. She had such a way with people, everyone loved her. Many of the children at the hospital where she volunteered thought she was an English princess, with her big smile, blue eyes and blonde hair.” It’s important for me to tell him about my sister. Prim was one of the heirs too, so Mr. Flickerman must have some information on her, but they are just words on a paper. A photograph at most. None of those things can truly convey who my sister was. So many of the people who used to know her are dead now. I don’t want her to be forgotten. “I knew she would become the perfect nurse,” I continue. “And even though I was scared because she was going back to a Europe that was in war, I supported her decision.”

“So you did not follow her back to England?”

“I was going to,” I explain to him. “When Primrose left, there would be little reason for me to stay in Malaya. However, Mr. Hawthorne begged me to stay just a few more months, until they could find a replacement for me, and I agreed.”

I take another sip of tea, to hide that I’m not sure if my voice would be quite clear if I were to continue right away.

I remember waving goodbye to Prim when her ship left for England. She stood on deck, dressed in a light blue summer dress, her blond hair shining in the sun. I watched her becoming smaller and smaller, waving continuously until she was out of sight. Then I returned to what used to be our flat, which suddenly seemed empty without her.

I never saw my sister again.

I was so worried about her when she left. That her ship would be sunk on long voyage home. That if she did make it back to London, she would die in a German bomb raid. I was so focused on her safety that it never really occurred to me that I would be in danger, too, but before I knew it, I was. That I lived to see the end of the war was nothing short of a miracle. Lagu Burung was part of that miracle. Peeta was another.

 

* * *

 

 

**Malaya, 1942**

_“It is a sign,” Effie says. Her eyes are distant, as if she’s looking at something far away, but there is a light in her face, a serenity, that I’ve never seen before. “Like Jesus, Mr. Mellark died to save us. He was sent us from God. It is a sign that we will survive. We must have faith.”_

_I register her words, but I can’t think of a single thing to answer. Faith? How can Effie talk about_ faith _, with the sounds of the whip still fresh in her mind?_

_I haven’t slept in days. I’m afraid to close my eyes, because when I do, I hear Peeta’s screams, they are still ringing in my ears. I prefer the day, when other, real sounds drown the screams. At night, it’s too quiet. The border between real and not real becomes blurred._

_The others seem full of hope when they speak of Peeta. They believe it, I think to myself, when I notice how Effie helps Wiress to her feet after she’s tripped and fallen. I overhear Effie’s whispered words of God and how He holds his hand over us. I see Wiress’s small smile. She must be exhausted and in pain, but she not only finds the strength to keep going, she even holds her head higher._

_They truly believe that Peeta Mellark was sent from God to save us._

 

* * *

 

**London, 1948**

 

Pushing my thoughts away, I continue my story. “Before Mr. Hawthorne could find a replacement, before we all realized what was happening, the Japanese invaded Malaya in December of 1941. By then it was of course too late to leave. As citizens of a country that was at war with Japan, all Englishmen became prisoners. The men were sent to a prison camp in Singapore, but the women and children, all 34 of us, well… the Japanese simply didn’t know what to do with us.”

“I’ve heard stories of how Japanese soldiers treated civilians,” Mr. Flickerman says. He’s leaned back in his chair, his fingertips poised together.

“I don’t know what you have heard, but based on my own experience, there is a good chance some of those stories were true.” I pause. “War is cruel. Regardless of which nations are at war, women and children – on both sides - suffer the most.”

Mr. Flickerman leans forward in his chair. “It’s admirable that you are able to say that,” he says. “After what you must have gone through. I’m not sure if I can ever forgive the Germans.”

“I never spoke of forgiveness, Mr. Flickerman,” I answer slowly.

“So what you are saying is… Remember who the enemy is?”

"Yes," I agree immediately and my eyes widen. I hadn’t expected Mr. Flickerman to so perfectly put words to what I meant. Perhaps better than I was able to myself. “I came to realize that the nation of Japan wasn’t really _my_ enemy. On many occasions, I witnessed, or was on the receiving end of, acts of kindness from Japanese soldiers. They weren’t necessarily my enemies just because of their nationality.” I remember Sergeant Darius’s slumped shoulders when we buried a child, the devastation in his eyes. “People became my enemies because of the crimes they committed. _My_ war was personal. My enemies all had names and faces.”

And the face of the worst of them haunts my nightmares.

He seems to contemplate my answer before a few seconds before he speaks again. “Were you sent to a prison camp?”

“No. Not exactly,” I say slowly.

 

* * *

 

 

**Malaya, 1942**

_“There is no camp,” Madge whispers one night, in the darkness. We are lying on straw mats on the dirt floor of the local school, our home for the night. At first, when the Japanese prison guards tried to talk to them, the village elders flatly refused to take us in. There are many of us, and even though we are starving, we would still eat a substantial proportion of their meagre reserves. The Malay of our Japanese guards is rudimentary at best, and Sergeant Cato made it worse by being arrogant and rude, as usual. It was clear we weren’t getting anywhere. Fortunately, Sergeant Darius finally allowed me to try to reason with the elders. The village elders were stunned that a white woman was fluent in Malay. So stunned they were willing to listen to me. After some contemplation, we were allowed to stay here tonight. I even managed to bargain for some rice and vegetables, but only enough for one meal._

_We have walked from one village to the next for weeks now. The sun has burned our delicate, too pale skin. Our English clothes have been traded for sarongs. We walk, and we starve. We get sick, and we die. Four children and two women have already been lost. We dig graves by the road, graves that are shallow because we are too exhausted to dig them deep. Afterwards, we make a simple cross with a name and a date, and sing psalms._

_Then we keep walking._

_I know Madge has much more to worry about than I do. She is responsible for three children, and she’s also desperately worried about Gale. Vick, Rory and Posy fell asleep almost instantly, exhausted from the day. It sounds like everyone else is asleep, too. Madge and I are the only ones who are still awake._

_Madge is right. There is no camp. I’ve known it for a while. But I don’t answer her. I’m not sure this is a conversation I can bear to have right now. A tear rolls down my cheek, but I know it’s too dark for her to see it. If I stay very still, maybe she’ll think that I’m asleep too, so that I don’t have to answer._

_“I’m right, Katniss,” she whispers. “You know that I am. And I know that you’re awake.”_

_“Yes,” I finally whisper. But whether I agree with her last statement or both of them, isn’t necessarily clear._

_“I need you to promise me something,” she says, her voice more insistent now._

_I know what she is going to ask, but don’t really want to hear the words. They make the situation all too real. Still, I ask: “What is it?”_

_“I need you to protect my children if I die.”_

_“Madge…”_

_“Promise me,” she insists._

_“You’re not going to die, Madge.”_

_“Six people have already died." I know that if it weren’t so dark, I’d see the tears streaming down her cheeks. I’d also see how pale and gaunt she is. “Who knows which of us will be next. I need you to promise me that you’ll protect my children if I die. You’re strong, Katniss, you’re clever, and you speak Malay. Everyone respects you. If anyone’s going to survive this, it’s you.” When I still don’t answer, she pleads. “Please.”_

_There’s a long silence while I fight back tears. I don’t trust my voice to hold. “I promise,” I finally say. “I’ll protect your children. Always.” I reach out to lightly touch Vick’s jet black curls. The four-year-old is sleeping next to me. The words seem to calm her, because not long after, I can hear from her breathing that Madge is asleep._

_I, however, can’t sleep. I have somehow ended up as an unofficial leader of the group. Sometimes, the responsibility is almost too much to bear. Juggling the needs of the weakest members of our group with the overall wellness of the group, encouraging people to walk on, even when they want to give up, trying to please our guards, making relations to the local villagers so they allow us to stay an extra day when we desperately need it…_

_Still, people wither away in front of my eyes or in my arms, despite my best efforts._

_I can’t save them._

* * *

 

 

_We march every second day, because the children need a day of rest. It’s not enough._

_It’s not just the marching though, it’s the tropical diseases, too. The malnourishment makes us vulnerable, and the diarrhea is the worst of them all. It drains the children, and it threatens the strongest of the adults, as well._

_Madge is suffering. She is weak, weaker than most of the other surviving adults, and she often needs my help to carry her youngest, little Posy. Posy is only eight months old, but thankfully, she seems robust and healthy. I know that could change quickly, though. She’s so young, her body so little. She has virtually no reserves._

_Sadly, Vick is the first of the Hawthornes to go. One day he is relatively healthy. The next day, the diarrhea sets in. Just after midday on the following day, in the shade of a Rain tree, he passes away. We bury him there, and two hours later, we are back on the road._

_Something in Madge breaks that day. I carry Posy almost all day now, on my hip like the local women do, because Madge is too weak to carry any extra weight. She seems distant, and some nights I have to force her to eat. Sometimes she talks to Gale, even though he isn’t there._

_Rory, who is almost six, gets malaria. He is drenched in sweat throughout a terrible, terrible night, in which Madge holds him tight as he slips in and out of consciousness._

_In the morning, he is dead._

_Losing two children is more than most people can bear, and when the deaths happen only days apart, it must be even worse. She has one child alive, who needs her. But still, the will to live has disappeared from Madge's eyes._

_When we bury Rory, Madge says a prayer for her son, and those are the last coherent words she speaks. She seems catatonic after that._

_Five days later, I find myself responsible for a baby, as I watch the others fill Madge’s shallow grave with dirt. She’s buried under a Rain tree, too. Even though it is of course not the same tree that we buried Vick under, I think she’d like that._

 

 

* * *

 

**London, 1948**

“The soldiers forced you to walk on like that? Even though you were dying in front of them?” Mr. Flickerman voice is low. I can't tell whether he's angry or saddened...or worse.

“Yes.”

“Surely life in a prisoner of war camp must be preferable to walking from village to village,” he mutters.

I shrug tiredly. “I suppose. The camps were horrible, too. They were overfilled, teeming with mosquitoes, flees and rats, and the hygienic conditions were appalling. We later discovered that many of the men died, too, of hunger, diarrhea and tropical diseases, same as we did.”

“You’ve spoken of Mr. Hawthorne several times. He was in one of those camps, was he not?” I nod. “Did he survive the war?”

“Yes.” I don’t really want to get onto the subject of Gale. I don’t want to talk of his hopes, his expectations, that I couldn’t meet.

“What happened to little Posy after her mother died?”

“I took her as my own, of course,” I say. “What else was I to do? I had given Madge my word. But it wasn’t a difficult thing to do,” I say with a smile. The first smile, I suppose, since I started telling my story. “I love Posy. I would do anything for her.”

“So, Posy survived, too?”

“Yes, she did.”

“Good. I’m glad.” It’s as if he sinks back in his chair, and for a split second, it doesn’t feel as if everything he says or does is choreographed. I think he’s genuinely relieved that Posy lives. But then he snaps back into his part. “You said that you stayed in that village for three years,” Mr. Flickerman says. “When did you stop wandering?”

“We were allowed to settle down in Lagu Burung, the village I told you about, after around half a year. But before we got that far…” My voice trails off. 

I meet Mr. Flickerman’s eyes, and for a fleeting second, I think it’s odd that I can’t tell what color they are. Something between gray and blue, maybe.

Peeta’s eyes were definitely blue, though. Blue like the sky on a clear summer day. Sometimes, when I close my eyes when I try to sleep at night, I can still see them.

I take a deep breath before I’m able to continue. “Before we got that far, something terrible happened.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
>   
> 
> 
>   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's taken me forever to update, but I assure you, Alice has definitely not been abandoned. Unfortunately, real life sometimes gets in the way of fanfiction... But chapter two is ready at last, thank you so much for your patience! It will probably take me at least a month or two to post chapter three, though. It still needs a lot of work, and I'm officially in the final stages of my PhD, so my fanfic time is limited. The next fic I update will be Midwinter. 
> 
> Thank you so much to my fabulous alpha and best friend Lbug84, and thank you to Otrascosasseries for making the amazing banner. I'd also like to thank everyone who's given me kudos, left a comment or PMed me on Tumblr for your support, feedback and ideas! It's always very inspiring to hear from you.

**_Malaya, 1942_ **

_It’s a hot and humid day. Even Sergeant Darius, our guard, seems tired and confused._

_The Japanese have long since realized that we’re not going to attempt to escape. There is nowhere for us to go. I suppose they didn’t want to waste more resources on us than they had to, so one by one, our original five guards were reassigned until only Darius was left._

_Fortunately, Sergeant Cato was the first to be posted elsewhere. He hated us from the very beginning. I suspect he considered herding a group of foreign women and children through Malaya a dead end for his career. For some reason, I was usually the target of his frustration and anger. Even though I kept my eyes downcast and never willingly provoked him, it was as if he couldn’t stand the sight of me. The bruises on my arms and legs were caused by his boots and fists._

_We could do a lot worse than Sergeant Darius. He never hits us, and sometimes, he even carries one of the children when they are too tired or sick to walk._

_“Rest soon?” Effie asks Sergeant Darius. It’s almost midday, and we need to get out of the sun. We’re not quite sure how far we’ll walk today._

_“Yes, yes,” Sergeant Darius says. We know from experience that Sergeant Darius saying ‘yes’ doesn’t necessarily mean we will actually get to rest soon. He can also say ‘yes’ because he doesn’t want to lose face. Or maybe he feels sorry for us and wants us to keep our spirits up._

_“There’s a village coming up soon,” I say to Effie. I asked for information on the area in Baru, the village we left this morning. “It’s called Berharap. Is that where we will stay tonight, Sergeant Darius? Berharap?” I supplement the Japanese word for “village” and motion with my hands, too – sleep. I sincerely hope we’ll stop in the nearest village, because it’s another four miles to the next one, and we’re already tired._

_“Yes, yes,” Sergeant Darius says again, and the way he nods his head makes me hopeful that it’s the truth. He’s probably eager to get some rest, too.  He must be even hotter than we are; he’s wearing his uniform. We are wearing loose, light-colored cotton sarongs, and the youngest children aren’t wearing anything at all. Sarongs are far more comfortable in the heat than the clothing we used to wear. We have traded our old clothes off along the way. I sigh in relief, desperately hoping we’ll see the village around the next turn of the dirt road. My feet are aching. Posy, despite our insufficient diet, is getting heavy, and even though her weight is partially supported by a sling, carrying her all day is exhausting._

_We keep walking, our spirits somewhat lifted with the prospect of some rest. “We should be in the Capitol soon,” Johanna mutters under her breath. The official name of the state capital is Kuantan, but everyone calls it the Capitol. “Right?”_

_“Yes,” I agree._

_“When?” She presses._

_I sigh. “Likely one day’s march after this one.”_

_Sergeant Darius says there’s a prison camp for women in the Capitol, but I don’t believe him. When he talks about the camp in Capitol, he avoids looking me in the eyes. We’ve heard about this fabled women’s prison camp from the guards since we started marching six months ago, but the supposed location has changed several times. Why would it be any different this time?_

_Even though I haven’t spoken with anyone about my suspicions, I’m pretty sure that Johanna shares them. Fortunately, Johanna just nods, and doesn’t press the issue here, on the road, where everyone can hear us. We’re all sick and exhausted. The desperate hope that we’ll reach a prison camp soon is all that’s keeping quite a few of the others going. Even though we’ve been disappointed so many times before, I suppose we need something to believe in. Johanna is too smart to be fooled, though. She and I are still healthy enough to have the strength to consider the very real possibility that we’re being lied to._

_“I think that must be Berharap,” Cecelia says beside me. She’s holding the hand of her youngest son Twill, who is five. Her two older children walk just behind them. In the distance, there is a small group of houses, but between us and the village, something else catches our attention._

_“Look,” Twill says with a delighted smile. “Trucks!” Even though he’s one of the healthier children, it’s the first time I’ve seen him smile in days. Twill loves trucks. He points at two heavily loaded trucks which are parked on one side of the road. At least one must have broken down, because two legs are sticking out from under it, and there’s a large box next to them – probably a tool box of some kind._

_Trucks break down all the time on the dirt roads of Malaya; that’s commonplace. What makes us stop when we reach the trucks isn’t Twill’s interest in vehicles, though - it’s the man leaning against the side of the truck with a piece of straw between his shaped lips. Even in dirty, ragged clothes, the man is so picture perfect that I can’t find a single flaw in him, which is unnerving. He looks as though he’s in his mid-twenties, he’stall and his body is lean build. It’s obvious to me that he isn’t from Malaya. He has golden skin, bronze-colored hair and the most incredible, sea green eyes I’ve ever seen._

_Johanna smirks when she glances sideways at me. “Like what you see, Everdeen?”_

_I scowl, annoyed that I’ve been caught staring. I tear my eyes away from the almost ridiculous perfection of the man standing next to the truck and force my gaze instead on the legs sticking out from under it. His skin is tanned but covered with blond hairs, so he’s not from Malaya either. Two Japanese soldiers are clearly guarding the trucks, so the men are probably prisoners of war, too._

_“Blight would forgive me for fucking someone who’s *that* good-looking, don’t you agree?” Johanna whispers in my ear, her voice just loud enough for me to hear. “It’s not cheating when they look like that. It doesn’t count.” I have to stifle a laugh. Johanna may be married, but that doesn’t stop her from saying exactly what she means._

_“Johanna,” Effie hisses behind us. “Manners!” Johanna rolls her eyes._

_The only thing that disturbs the perfection of the bronze-haired man, is the way his gaze lingers on us, just a fraction of a second too long. He almost immediately bypasses Wiress, seems fairly uninterested in Effie and Seeder, stays a little longer on Cecelia and me, and there’s a definite smile on his lips when he meets Johanna’s eyes. He winks at her, and I’m shocked to see that her grin is almost predatory. Finally, his eyes land on Cashmere. I may not be all that experienced, but I still recognize male overt appreciation of a woman’s looks when I see it. Cashmere has pulled her long, blonde hair into a knot and covered it with a shawl to avoid attention, but her extraordinary beauty is impossible to hide.  She pretends to ignore him, but I can see that she stands up a bit taller._

_I narrow my eyes, ready to intervene if the man tries anything. I’ve heard enough stories of foreigners, soldiers and civilians alike, who take advantage of local, poor Malay women - which is most likely what this Greek god idiot thinks we are. We’re all tanned from spending months in the relentless tropical sun, and we are dressed in sarongs. Anyone from Malaya immediately sees that we’re not from here, of course, but a foreigner probably won’t._

_“The truck is fucked,” a deep voice from underneath the truck says. It’s the first time in six months I’ve heard English, spoken by a clearly native speaker, from someone outside our steadily dwindling group. “It’s going to take several hours to fix this.”  I can’t quite place his accent. He’s neither English nor American. He must be colonial._

_“Language, young man,” Effie says, and covers the ears of her daughter, Portia. Johanna coughs to hide her laugh. She’s usually the one who gets a lecture on proper language or behavior from Effie._

_The green-eyed man widens his eyes at Effie’s words. “Apologies,” he says, on behalf of his companion._

_The man from underneath the truck suddenly appears. He looks about the same age as the bronze-skinned man, with unruly blond hair, blue eyes and skin which is tanned from spending many hours in the sun. He is of medium height, stocky - he looks like he’s all muscle. He’s not perfect, like the sea green-eyed man; he is handsome in a more rugged, real way. “Who was that?” He asks. “Who of you speaks English?” He speaks very slowly, as if he’s speaking to someone who doesn’t know English very well._

_“We all do,” I answer. “We’re all English.” Our eyes meet, and for some reason, I can’t help but notice that his eyelashes are really long. I wonder if they tangle._

_He studies me closely, as if trying to confirm that what I told him is true. He looks at the naked, brown baby on my hip and my bare, dirty feet. His gaze stops briefly at my chest, and it takes me a second to understand why: My sarong has slid down slightly, revealing a thin line of paler skin just above my breasts. The color is in stark contrast with the rest of my body. I quickly adjust my sarong._

_His eyes meet mine again. “Straits-born?” he asks._

_“No, real English,” I tell him. “We’re going to the women’s prison camp in the Capitol.”_

_I say the words, even though I’ve stopped believing in them. It’s more for the benefit of the others in the group than anything else._

_“There is no prison camp in the Capitol,” the sea green-eyed man says. “We were there just last week.” The flirting look from before is gone. Instead, he looks as if he’s… sorry._

_I already knew. I did. But still, hearing the confirmation of my fears… “It was just another lie then,” I sigh._

_“The Japanese will say anything to make you cooperate,” he says, his perfectly chiseled jaw clenched._

_“You’re all really English?” the other man, the one with the eyelashes, says. “Even the children?” He looks at Posy, and to my surprise, she smiles at him. She’s usually wary of strangers, I don’t know why shew takes an interest in the blond man. I’m taken aback when he smiles at her too. The cautiousness from before seems to melt away as his face lights up. Then he makes a funny grimace, causing Posy to laugh._

_I force myself to focus on something else than the twinkle in his blue eyes when he smiles. Or his naked chest, sweaty from working under the truck in the tropical heat. “Yes,” I say, hoping I didn’t space out long enough for him to notice. “Some of us have been in Malaya a long time, ten or fifteen years, and many of the children were born here. But we’re all English. Most of us are married, our husbands used to work in Kuala Lumpur.”_

_Only after the words have left my mouth do I realize that they make it seem as if I’m married too. When in fact I’m the only one among us who isn’t._

_“Where are your husbands now?”_

_“In a prison camp in Singapore,” Cashmere answers. “At least that’s what they tell us.”_

_“That’s probably not a lie,” the blond man says. “There is a large prison camp in Singapore. The only reason why we’re not there too is that we’re driving these trucks.”_

_“For how long have you been marching?” the other man says. He has that same accent that I can’t quite place. They must be from the same country or colony, but where?_

_“Six months,” I answer. “We’ve walked nearly five hundred miles.”_

_His sea green eyes darken, to a color more reminiscent of a storm. “With the children?” he asks incredulously._

_“Yes.”_

_“And what happens if one of you gets ill?” the man who was under the truck asks._

_“Then we either recover, or we die.” My voice is matter of fact, almost devoid of emotion. Since we were taken prisoner, I’ve had to shut my emotions off as best as I can, it’s the only way to survive. “We don’t have any medicines, so mostly we die. We were 34 when we started out. Now we are only 17 left.”_

_“Oh my word,” he breathes. He sizes up the group, but not like the other man did before. I don’t think he sees a group of potentially attractive women. He sees dirty, tattered clothes, exhausted children and gaunt faces. We’re a sorry sight. His hands clench into fists, and his shoulders tense. “Where are you staying tonight?” he asks, and even though I think he tries to hide it, his voice can’t quite conceal his anger._

_“In Berharap, hopefully,” I answer, nodding towards the village in the distance. “If the village elders agree to take us in, of course. We’ll have to stay here tomorrow, too. We can’t march the children every day.” I don’t mention that I’m not sure if Sergeant Darius intends us to stay here tonight, but he probably does – if we were to continue to the next village today, we wouldn’t arrive until it’s quite late, and several of the children have been pushed too far today already._

_“What do you say, Finnick?” He looks at his Greek god friend. “Don’t you agree that the damage to the truck appears even worse than we thought? It’s going to take another day to fix this. At least.”_

_“Absolutely,” the man called Finnick answers. “There must be a problem with that part we still haven’t learned the Japanese name of. Shame, we’re not mechanics.”_

_“So unfortunately, it looks like we’re staying in Berharap tonight too,” the blond man says to me with a grin. He takes a step closer to me, and says in a lower voice, “You said you don’t have any medicines? Is there anything in particular you need?”_

_I hesitate. The blond man appears earnest, but I don’t know him. I’m not sure if I can trust him. And if accept anything from him, I would owe him a debt I’d never be able to repay._

_I meet the blond man’s eyes. They are blue, like the tropical sky._

_Rory’s eyes were gray. They used to sparkle with laughter, but on that last day, they were hazy from fever. In the end, he didn’t even recognize Madge. I feel the weight of his baby sister on my hip. What if…_

_“Quinine,” I answer, my voice low too, so the soldiers won’t hear us. It’s a word they might know in English._

_“Is there anything else you need?” He presses. It’s as if he knows how hard asking for assistance is for me._

_I wish I could afford to say there’s nothing else we need. But I can’t, and what’s more, it must be obvious to him that quinine is far from the only thing we’re sorely lacking. “Glauber’s salt,” I reluctantly say, swallowing what little is left of my pride. “And something for the children’s skin diseases. They have rashes all over.”_

_He nods. “I’ll see what I can do.”_

_“Thank you.”_

_Our eyes meet, and he smiles. It’s the same smile from before, when he was looking at Posy, the one that lights up his face. But now that smile directed at me instead of her, and I’m completely unprepared for the warmth it causes in me, radiating through my body._

_Then one of the soldiers guarding the truck barks something I don’t understand in Japanese, and I quickly divert my gaze, looking down at the dirt. From the corner of my eye, I see that he motions to Peeta, clearly ordering him to keep working._

_“I’ll find you later,” the blond man murmurs, and then he slides back under the truck, where I’m pretty sure he’s going to either invent or create a mechanical problem which is serious enough to warrant being stuck here tonight._

 

* * *

_Thankfully, Sergeant Darius did intend for us to stop in Berharap, and I’m equally grateful that the village elders agree to let us stay for two nights. It’s usually not a problem to get permission to stay anymore, though. It’s partly because our group is a lot smaller now, of course. The villages are a lot less reluctant to take us in now that we don’t put such a strain on their limited resources._

_But I think the change in attitude might also partly be because now, most people we meet already know who we are. They tell us they’ve heard of a group of English women and children, forced by the Japanese to march aimlessly all over the country. The people of Malaya have no more love of their invaders than we do, and Wiress says that we must have become something of a symbol of the Japanese oppression. By helping us, even if it’s just by giving us some rice or a little bit of cooking oil, people feel as if they’re doing something to quietly resist the invaders._

_One of the women I spoke to today, Leeg, even knew my name, which really surprised me._

_We’ll sleep in the village’s school building – which consists of only one room with one door and window openings without glass. School is already over for the day, and we rest in the shade, while Seeder and Cecelia prepare a late lunch, which will also double as our dinner. It’s rice with some vegetables, as always, but today, Leeg gave us some meat to go with the vegetables – a rare treat._

_I try to ignore my growling stomach while I do my best to keep Posy occupied with a few sticks and leaves. But I don’t miss Johanna’s sideway glances, or the smirk on her face. It’s almost as if she finds something amusing. I ignore her. Posy is just as hungry and tired as I am, and she requires all my attention right now. She’s too small for her age, but she still seems relatively healthy compared to most of the other children. She’s a born survivor, even though she is so little – but I know that all it takes is a few sips of dirty water, or a bite from the wrong mosquito, and then…_

_Fighting back the lump in my throat, I hug her, so tightly she squirms in protest. I promised Madge I’d protect her children. I couldn’t protect Vick and Rory, but I’ll do anything in my power to protect her only remaining child. Even if it involves accepting charity from strangers._

_However, as the hours pass without any sign of the truck drivers, I grow increasingly annoyed. Not with the truck drivers, really, but with myself for becoming so disappointed. Of course the blond man didn’t really mean it. He appeared earnest, but I should’ve known he was just playing with me._

_Nightfall comes quickly in the tropics. Posy is tired after a long day on the road, she’s fuzzy and difficult to calm. I hold her close, walking slowly across the floor in the classroom, back and forth, back and forth, while I sing for her._

 

**_Deep in the meadow, under the willow_ **   
**_A bed of grass, a soft green pillow_ **   
**_Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes_ **   
**_And when you awake, the sun will rise._ **

**_Here it's safe, here it's warm_ **   
**_Here the daisies guard you from harm_ **   
**_Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true_ **   
**_Here is the place where I love you._ **

**_Deep in the meadow, hidden far away_ **   
**_A cloak of leaves, A moonbeam ray,_ **   
**_Forget your woes and let your troubles lay_ **   
**_And when again it's morning, they'll wash away._ **

**_Here it's safe, here it's warm_ **   
**_Here the daisies guard you from every harm_ **   
**_Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true_ **   
**_Here is the place where I love you._ **

****

_Posy is asleep before I reach the third verse, but I finish anyway because this isn’t just Posy’s nighttime routine anymore; singing this lullaby has turned into something that all the children require. I lay Posy down on the straw mat on the floor, and then I lie down next to her._

_I allow my aching muscles to relax as I snuggle closer to Posy. It’s so soothing to listen to the soft, regular sounds of her breathing as she sleeps. The air is cooler now, and it’s filled with the sweet smell of jasmine flowers._

_Just before I drift off to sleep too, I think to myself that I don’t know the blond man’s name._

 

* * *

 

_I’m roused by Johanna._

_“Katniss,” she whispers insistently. “Katniss! Wake up.” I open my eyes, blinking, trying to focus. It’s dark, but I can just barely see the outline of Posy’s sleeping face close to mine._

_“What is it?” I mutter, still half asleep._

_“It’s one of the Australians from before. The one who was under the truck.” Australian. Yes, Johanna’s right, he must be Australian. I don’t think I’ve met any Australians before, that’s probably why it was difficult for me to place the accent. “He wants to speak with you.”_

_I suddenly feel wide awake. He did mean it. He came after all. “Please look after Posy for me,” I whisper. I get up, tie my sarong, and slip on my top. Fortunately, Posy doesn’t budge._

_“Make sure you don’t wake up Effie,” Johanna whispers back. “You’ll never hear the end of it.”_

_Johanna’s right. Even here, keeping up appearances is important to Effie. To her, a single woman meeting a man alone at night is unthinkable. Unlike Effie, I don’t have the luxury of worrying about virtue and proper etiquette. Ever since we were captured, there have been more important things to think about, all of them centered around staying alive. Because there is no question that soap and remedies for tropical diseases would help us stay alive, at least for a little while longer, I’ll meet with the blond Australian, regardless of what Effie might have to say about it. Effie snores lightly as I carefully step over her. She doesn’t move and I sigh in relief. I really don’t want a lecture right now._

_It’s dark outside, but thankfully the full moon makes it easier to spot the blond Australian man. He’s standing near the door, by a jasmine bush – probably ready to slip into the shadows if anyone comes out of the neighboring houses. The air is pleasingly cool compared to the heat of the day. The breeze prevents it from becoming too humid._

_“Good evening,” the man says in a low voice. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”_

_“No, you didn’t,” I lie._

_“Let’s go over there, so we don’t disturb the others.” He nods towards a group of trees just across the dirt road._

_“Yes,” I agree. Everyone’s exhausted, and the last thing they need, is me keeping them awake at night._

_When we get over to the trees, he holds out a cloth bag. “I got you this. The labels aren’t in English, so you might want to go over everything with me.”_

_I hesitate for a second, but then I think of shallow, entirely too small graves under trees by the road. I take a deep breath and accept the bag. “That’s quinine,” he explains when I take out the first item, a small box._

_“Thank you,” I say. “That’s going to be very useful.” I remember the heat of Rory’s forehead before he died. If this quinine can save just one child… I clutch the box tighter, clinging to life. Maybe Posy’s life, maybe Twill’s. Maybe mine._

_“I couldn’t find glauber’s salt, but I did get you some stuff the Chinese use against dysentery,” he continues. “The label is in Chinese, but what it says is that you’re supposed to make a tea out of three leaves and drink it twice a day. That’s for a grown-up person. If it works, keep the box. You can get more if you show the label at a Chinese drug store.”_

_“How much did you pay for this?” I’m not sure how to pay him back, but we do have a few items of jewelry left that the Japanese didn’t take._

_“I didn’t,” he says with a sly smile. “The Japanese did. Only they don’t know it.”_

_“What did you steal from them?”_

_My scowl doesn’t seem to make an impression on him, because he winks. “Petrol. Oldest trick in the book.”_

_“And what happens when your guards find out the hard way that there’s less petrol in the tank than there should be?”_

_“I have a feeling we’ll soon have another unexpected and very unfortunate mechanical failure – one that involves petrol loss,” he answers innocently._

_I can’t help but smile. Damn him. I’m sure he could charm his way out of just about anything. I also strongly suspect, since he’s so casual, that this isn’t the first time he’s stolen from the Japanese. “You didn’t have to do that for us,” I say._

_He shrugs. “It’s no big deal.” But we both know that it is. If he’s caught, the consequences will be dire._

_“Are you prisoners?” I ask him._

_“Yes, they got us in Jahore. They have me and Finnick driving trucks all over Malaya instead of being in a prison camp. Not the worst deal you can get.” He’s right. His deal certainly sounds much better than mine. “So how about you, Mrs. Mockingjay?” I freeze, and he must misunderstand why, because he quickly continues: “Sorry, it was just a joke. It’s just… I didn’t know your name, but then I heard you sing a lullaby to your daughter earlier tonight.”_

_My eyes widen in surprise, and he quickly continues, clearly embarrassed. “I was looking for you earlier tonight, and I heard you were in the school. When I heard the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard sing a lullaby in English, I couldn’t help but stop and listen. I saw that it was you through the window.” He grimaces. “That didn’t sound good, now did it?” He scratches his neck nervously and chuckles, almost apologetically. “It hope that didn’t make me come across as crazy.”_

_“It’s okay,” I say, embarrassed, too. I didn’t think anyone but the women and children in our group would hear me sing._

_“I realized it must be a bad time, and decided to come by later, after your daughter had fallen asleep. Anyway, your voice reminded me of mockingjays. They are a species of songbirds, back home,” he clarifies, when he sees the look of confusion on my face. “So because I didn’t know your name, I’ve thought of you as Mrs. Mockingjay after that. I hope you don’t mind. I didn’t mean any offense.”_

_I don’t quite know what to say. I don’t suspect him of stalking me. I only froze when he called me Mrs. Mockingjay becuase he used the title ‘Mrs..’ Though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. When we met earlier today I had a baby on my hip and I told him about ‘our husbands.’_

_“No, I don’t mind,” I assure him. I stretch out my hand and he accepts. His hand is large. His skin is rough and warm. “I’m Katniss. Katniss Everdeen.”_

_“Peeta Mellark. It’s nice to know your name at last, Mrs. Everdeen,” he continues._

_The name sounds foreign, as if he’s speaking about my mother. But instead of correcting him, I avoid the issue of my title altogether. “Please, call me Katniss. Most of us gave up on formalities and etiquette long ago.”_

_He chuckles. “That’s understandable, under the circumstances. So I suppose we’re officially on a first name basis now?”_

_“Yes, I suppose we are.” I nervously tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. My heart is pounding and I don’t know why. “You’re Australian?” I ask him, mostly to talk about something other than my name. Why I didn’t correct him? He thinks that I am married._

_“Yes, I am. Born and raised in the Outback.” He smiles proudly, and I can see the glint of his teeth in the moonlight. His smile is contagious. I can’t help but smile too._

_“I never thought that the first time I met an Australian he’d be under a truck, swearing like a sailor,” I admit._

_Peeta laughs, but he does look embarrassed. “I’m sorry about the swearing. If I’d known that twenty women and children who actually understood what I said were listening to me, I would have chosen my words more carefully.” I bite my lip to keep myself from laughing. I haven’t really had anything to laugh about in months. Yet this man, a virtual stranger, still manages to coax laughter out of me. “But, if I may say so, I never thought that the first time I met an English woman, she’d be dressed like you.”_

_“We got rid of our old clothes months ago. Sarongs are a lot more comfortable in the heat.”_

_His face becomes serious. “I’m sorry you’re in this terrible situation, Katniss,” he says softly._

_“Thank you.”  I don’t really want to think about the situation we’re in today, or what’s going to happen tomorrow. Speaking with a stranger offers me a chance to escape, if only for a little while. So to distract both of us from our present predicament, I say: “I’ve never been to Australia, so I didn’t know what a mockingjay is. If you’d called me a nightingale, I would have understood.”_

_“Mockingjays live in the outback,” he explains. “It’s a very rare little bird. It’s black with white spots under its wings. Even though it’s pretty and even elegant in a sort of understated way, it doesn’t look that remarkable at first glance. But when it sings… Oh my word. The song is the most beautiful in all of Australia.”_

_“Really?” The only thing mockingjays and I have in common would be the singing, I suppose – at least according to Peeta, of course. Surely there is nothing even remotely pretty or elegant about me, in my faded sarong and messy braid._

_He nods. “I’ll sometimes spend weeks at a time out in the outback, sleeping under the stars. Just me and couple of other ringers, with our horses and our dogs. If I’m lucky, when I wake up at dawn, I’ll hear the mockingjays sing. When I do, I always know it’s going to be a good day.” His voice is warm, clearly speaking of treasured memories. Of a place where he is home, where he is safe._

_“It sounds wonderful.” It’s flattering that he’d give me a nickname which clearly represents something very important to him. I also can’t help but hear the longing in this voice. He’s homesick. I know very well what that feels like._

_We sit down under a tree. I know I should get back to the others, but Johanna will take care of Posy if she wakes.  If she starts crying, I’ll hear her and can go back inside immediately. The air outside is fresh and cool. What is the harm in staying out here for a while, talking to Peeta?_

_“We don’t have mockingjays in England,” I say softly. “I come from London, where nightingales are few and far between.” He laughs. “Being woken up by the pigeons which built a nest in the roof of our building was the closest I’d get to nature.”_

_“I can’t quite picture what it must be like to live in a city like London,” he confesses._

_“Have you ever been to England?”_

_“No.” He scratches his chin, which I noticed earlier today had a stubble. “My father came from England, though. Back in 1901. He was a baker, but times were hard, and he decided to try his luck in Australia. He dreamed of Sydney or Melbourne, but it turned out they had plenty of bakers there, so he ended up in a small town in Queensland instead. Fortunately for me.”_

_“What do you mean?”_

_“I wouldn’t last two weeks in the city,” he explains. “There are simply… too many people. With the dirt and pollution, houses everywhere…” He shakes his head. “I’ve been to Brisbane and Sydney a few times. It’s exciting at first, but after two days, I get restless and can’t go home quickly enough. In the outback, I can ride my horse for days and still be on the same property.”_

_“That would be hard in London,” I agree. For me, it’s hard to understand how that is even possible. “But you’re not a baker yourself?”_

_“No. I’m the youngest of three brothers, and everyone knew my eldest brother Bannock was going to inherit the family business. The bakery is too small to support more than one family, so I guess I always knew I’d have to find something else to do. I didn’t really mind, though. I always preferred riding with my friends to baking. All my friends’ fathers were ringers, and they taught me, same as their own sons.”_

_“Ringers?” He mentioned the word before, but I didn’t get the chance to ask what he meant._

_“In America, they would call us cowboys,” he explains, and I nod in understanding. I’ve seen Westerns, of course. It’s not hard to imagine this handsome, well-muscled Australian in a Western. Obviously, he would be the hero._

_“So it just made sense that I’d be a ringer, I suppose. I never seriously considered doing anything else. I love being on horseback all day, with my dog by my side. Sleeping under the stars. Waking up to mockingjays singing.” He smiles. Even though I know nothing about that kind of life, I can see how he’d prefer the freedom of the outback to a small, hot bakery. “What about you?” He asks, and his question catches me off guard. “What did you do? Before you were taken prisoner.”_

_“I’m a typist.” I shrug. “I wish I could tell you that I think being a typist is amazing and that I feel as if I make a difference, but the truth is, it’s just my job.”_

_He smiles. “Well, I suppose it pays the bills, right?”_

_I nod. “I’d give anything to be back in my office in KL now though,” I admit._

_His smile fades. “I can imagine. So how did you end up here? Did they get you in Kuala Lumpur?”_

_I tell him the whole story. How the Japanese didn’t know what to do with the English women and children that they took prisoner, that we march on, every other day. He already knows that half of us have died, so thankfully I don’t really have to cover that again._

_“That’s the most crook deal I’ve ever heard,” he mutters._

_“There is no prison camp for women at all, is there?” I ask tiredly, thinking of Madge’s words. “Not just in the Capitol, but in all of Malaya?” Peeta probably drives all over the country. If anyone would know, it would probably be him._

_“Not that I know of, no,” he says gently._

_I hide my face against my knees. I already knew, but still. We are all going to die, one by one, from disease and exhaustion. The soap and medicines Peeta has gotten us will help for a little while, but we’re gradually being worn down. There is no end in sight for the war, and there’s no way we’re going to survive years of marching. We’re all going to die, being herded from one village to the next like cattle._

_Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that he reaches out his hand, as if to comfort me, but he must change his mind, because retracts it. “Is there anything I can do for you?” he asks softly instead._

_I blink my tears away. “Tell me more about Australia?” I suggest. I heard the love and the longing in his voice when he spoke of the outback. He’s a prisoner too, there’s very little that he can do to help us. But what he can do, is take me away from here, if only for a little while._

_“Of course.” Peeta sits back, resting against the trunk of the tree. “Before I was drafted, I worked at a cattle station near Alice Springs, called Arena Creek. Do you know where Alice is?” I shake my head, feeling ashamed that I know so little of his country.  “It’s in the center of Australia. They call it the red center, because the dirt is red.”_

_“The dirt is red?” I find that hard to believe._

_“Yes it is,” he grins. “That’s another thing that’s hard to understand for a city girl, I suppose.” I nod, smiling too. I feel much better talking about dirt in a far-away country than I do talking about our current situation. Peeta seems more relaxed now, too. “Now, the outback is full of tiny towns,” he continues. “Many of them are old mining towns that have had to make the transition from mining to other businesses. Some have done well, like Alice, but most haven’t. There are plenty of jobs for the men on cattle stations, and the jobs are well-paid, too. But it’s brutally hot and there’s little there to attract women, so the girls usually flee as soon as they leave school.”_

_“Where do they go?” I ask him._

_“They move to larger towns or cities, places that have more to offer them: jobs, shops, and cinemas. Once they leave, they never come back.” He pauses. “Alice is different from the rest, though. Alice is a bonza little town. It has clean streets, shops, and two ice cream parlors. It’s a good place to live. People move to Alice instead of leaving it.”_

_“Why don’t you live in Alice, then?”_

_“I suppose even Alice is too big for me” he smiles in the darkness. “I told you I wasn’t made for city life. Living near Alice is great, though. Arena Creek is a couple of hours drive from Alice. I can ride for days without meeting a single soul if I don’t want to, but it’s still close enough so I can easily go to Alice if I want to have a cold beer or go to the cinema.”_

_“You’d drive for two hours for a cold beer?” I ask, incredulously._

_“Of course.” He chuckles. “I know it must be hard to understand for someone who’s lived most of her life in London and Kuala Lumpur.”_

_“So, what do you do at Arena Creek? Do you own the cattle station?”_

_He shakes his head. “No, I just work there. I herd cattle to water sources and fresh pastures. I brand them, make sure the neighbors don’t steal our unbranded calves...”_

_“They’d actually do that? Steal your calves?”_

_“Yes, of course! Everyone steals their neighbors’ calves.”_

_“Including you?”_

_He squirms. “Well, maybe I shouldn’t have used the word ‘stealing’. It’s more like… borrowing. And then, after you’ve borrowed the calves, you make sure to brand them real fast.”_

_“So I was right when I had a feeling this wasn’t the first time you’ve been stealing,” I say. My voice is stern, but there is a smile playing on my lips._

_“I’m an honest man!” He objects, but he’s smiling, too. “I only ever steal when it is absolutely necessary. When the system requires it, so to speak.” I raise an eyebrow. “If I don’t steal calves from the neighbors, they’d steal all of ours, and we’d end up with no calves to send to the slaughterhouse,” he explains. “But if we all steal calves from each other, we’re usually pretty much even at the end of each year, and everyone’s happy. It’s the same here in Malaya. If I don’t steal from the Japanese, we won’t get things we need, such as food and medicines. Necessities which, I might add, we don’t have in the first place purely because of them.”_

_I have to admit that he does have a point._

_“I hope to get a station of my own one day,” he adds, his voice dreamy. “After the war.”_

_“Near Alice Springs?”_

_He shrugs. “I don’t know. I really like Alice, but Queensland is home. Maybe I’ll go back there after the war. Find a place with more rainfall. The more rainfall you have, the more cattle you can keep alive through the dry season, and the more money you can make.”_

_I’m surprised Peeta’s able to think about life after the war. All I can think of, is how we can get food and a place to sleep today, and tomorrow. I can’t worry about what comes after tomorrow. It would be a constant reminder of how little I can do to keep us safe in the long run, and I fear it would eventually break me. I envy Peeta the ability to think that maybe, one day, it can be good again._

_I don’t, not anymore. “So there are mockingjays at Arena Creek, and obviously cattle… What about other animals? Do you have kangaroos?”_

_I hope Peeta won’t notice how I steer the conversation away from the future and back to the past. It doesn’t seem like he does, because he laughs. “You bet we do!”_

_My distraction works. Once he starts talking about his home, there’s no stopping him. It’s clear from the longing in his voice how much he misses the outback. I don’t know anything about Australia, but he paints a vivid picture in my mind with his words. The red dirt, the expanse of the brilliantly blue sky. The close relationships he has with his horses, his dog, and his fellow ringers. Above all, he tells me of the endless space, the freedom. I mostly just listen, enthralled, but I ask a few questions here and there when there’s something I don’t understand._

_“I’m sorry,” he says after a while, smiling a bit awkwardly. “I guess I got a bit carried away. I didn’t mean to bore you by talking about my home.”_

_“You didn’t,” I answer honestly. The world he’s talking of is one that I barely even knew existed until tonight, and to me it seems exotic. Having grown up in a city, the mere idea of riding for weeks without seeing another human being, is incredible. But what truly touches me, is how Peeta seems so content when he’s talking about the outback, so whole. Peeta knows exactly where he belongs. He knows exactly what he wants to do, he knows what makes him happy. He’s found his place. Whereas I? I have no plans, no direction. Before the war, I couldn’t even make up my mind which country to live in. The only goal I have in life, is to see Prim and my parents again._

_“How about Finnick? Did you know him back in Australia, too?”_

_“God, no.” He chuckles. “Finnick is from Bondi Beach in Sydney. He used to work as a ‘lifesaver’ there, before the war.” That explains his lean body, then. “You couldn’t find two more different places in Australia than District 13 and Bondi. When we first met, I thought Finnick was a typical Bondi playboy. He was ridiculously handsome, and he knew it, too, constantly using his looks to his advantage. Women were all over him, and he flirted with everyone.”_

_“I’ve noticed that already,” I say dryly._

_“Well, don’t let first impressions fool you. Flirting is like a spinal reflex to Finnick, he does it without even thinking about it. It took me a while to realize that underneath all that surfer playboy veneer, Finnick is actually a good guy. And he never, um…” He’s clearly searching for the right word, and it’s too dark to be certain, but I have a feeling that he’s blushing. “He’s never **physical** with any of women he flirts with,” he says, clearing his throat. Which makes me think that the phrase he’d normally use for being ‘physical’ is much less tactful. “Finnick has a girlfriend back home, Annie. He’s crazy about her. He has a photo of her in his pocket, and he’ll use any excuse to show it to me. He says he’ll propose to her when he gets home.”_

_If Finnick gets home. I swallow. “It must be very difficult for Annie too.”_

_“Yes, it must be hard to be so far away, when all you can do is worry. Annie doesn’t even know that Finnick is alive.”_

_Finnick and Peeta were probably taken prisoner at about the same time as us, six months ago, during the first invasion. Poor Annie hasn’t heard from her boyfriend in half a year. “I hope she waits for him,” I say quietly._

_There’s a slight pause before he answers. “I hope so, too. But the way he talks about her… I think she will. I think they have something very, very special.”_

_“Do you have a girlfriend back home? Or a wife?” The question just slips out of me. I feel my face burn with embarrassment, and I’m glad the darkness means he won’t notice. Why did I ask him that stupid question?_

_Peeta laughs. “Oh no. The only woman at home who might miss me is my mother. And I’m not sure if even she misses me very much.”_

_“Surely that’s not true,” I object._

_“Well, it’s complicated.” He seems more uncomfortable now. As if talking about his family is a sensitive subject. “My mother and I are… estranged.” He clears his throat. “I should probably get back to the trucks in case our guards wake up. You should get some rest, too. But before I go, I’m afraid I have some bad news. I was hoping we could stay here another day, but they had a car mechanic in the village. Of course he found out that that the problem wasn’t nearly as large as we’d claimed,” Peeta says apologetically._

_“Oh no!” I pale. “I hope your guards didn’t suspect anything?”_

_Peeta shakes his head. “Don’t worry. Finnick and I have gotten very good at looking innocent when we have to.” He winks._

_I relax. “Good.” I don’t know what to say. Peeta is leaving tomorrow morning. We’ll probably never see each other again. I’m surprised by how upset the thought of not seeing him again makes me feel._

_There’s a long, awkward silence. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that Peeta opens his mouth, then closes is, as if he changed his mind whether to say something._

_“You’re staying here tomorrow, right?” He finally asks._

_“Yes.”_

_“And after that you’re going to the Capitol?”_

_I sigh. “I suppose.” There’s no prison camp in the Capitol, but Sergeant Darius probably already knew that. There’s no reason why our plans will change. One place is as good as the next._

_He smiles widely. “We’re going to be in the Capitol for a few days, too. Use it as a base for shorter day trips. Look out for us when you arrive, okay? I’ll try to get you some more soap and medicines.”_

_“Thank you.” I’m smiling now too, more so more than usual._

_His face turns serious again. “You need to be careful in the Capitol, though. Captain Snow is the state’s commanding officer, and rumor has it he hates prisoners of war – especially prisoners who are what he calls ‘non-productive’.”_

_I shudder at the thought that human beings are only being judged by whether or not they can produce something. That they are dispensable pawns. “I suppose we’re not particularly productive.”_

_“No, you’re not. The further you are away from him, the safer you’ll be.”_

_“Why is Darius taking us to the Capitol?” I think out loud. “If he knows there’s no camp there?”_

_“Maybe he’s trying to get rid of the responsibility, get another post.” He pauses. “Or maybe he’s been ordered to.”_

_I furrow my brow. “Why would he be ordered to go the Capitol? I can’t imagine that Captain Snow even knows about us, let alone cares what happens about us.”_

_He shrugs. “I don’t know. It was just a thought.”_

_I shiver. Sergeant Darius used to be reluctant to go to the Capitol. Was that for our protection?_

_“There is one good thing about the Capitol, though,” Peeta continues. “It’s close to the coast, which is under the control of a different Captain. A Captain Coin, I think. He’s rumored to be more humane than Captain Snow.”_

_I nod, although I doubt that Captain Coin would care about us either way. “Thank you for helping us,” I tell him. “You have no idea how much this means to me. To us,” I quickly correct myself._

_His eyes look dark in the moonlight. They meet mine and he holds my gaze. Finally, he takes a deep breath. “It’s late. You, uh… should go back to the others, before anyone sees us.” He stands up on his feet, and so do I. His hands are buried in his pockets, he looks down, as if he’s embarrassed. “Goodnight, Mrs. Mockingjay. I’ll see you in the Capitol.” His voice is soft, almost like a caress._

_“Goodnight, Peeta.”_

_When I return to my mat on the floor, everyone is asleep, even Johanna. I was half expecting her to stay awake so she could pump me for details and embarrass me, but I suppose I was gone too long for that. When I lie down next to Posy, she rolls over, as if even in her sleep she senses that I’ve returned. I bury my nose in her hair, taking in her sweet baby scent, which mingles with the scent from the jasmine flowers outside._

_It’s probably safer to keep Peeta at a distance, I think._

_I’m so tired that I fall asleep almost immediately, without following my own train of thought. Just why it’s safer for me not to be too hopeful about Peeta Mellark._

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter was difficult to write because I needed to do a lot of world building! Now we can actually get on with the story. The next chapter is set in 1942 – which is when Katniss meets Peeta. 
> 
> 53,000 pounds may not seem like it's *that* much money, at least not enough to completely change someone's life. But Lbug84 and her husband figured out that when you do the currency conversion and take inflation into account, it's actually more than USD 2,000 000.


End file.
